Song of the Silent Harp

by BJ Hoff

  “But how—why the personal delivery?”

  “I was told only that it’s urgent, sir, and would you please send an answer back with me as soon as possible.”

  Michael studied the man’s impassive face. “I didn’t get your name.”

  The stranger met his gaze. “Barry will do. Do you think I could collect your answer by tomorrow, sir?”

  Again Michael looked at the envelope in his hand. “You’re going back to Ireland that soon?”

  “Aye. I have some business to attend to in the city; then I’ll be leaving.”

  “How is it that you know Morgan?” Michael pressed.

  “I’m sorry, sir, did I lead you to think that? I don’t actually know him at all. We have some mutual friends, you see, and when they learned I was coming over they asked me to deliver this for Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  Tierney had come to peer over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to open it, Da?” he asked eagerly.

  Michael lifted his hand to silence the lad. “You say you need my reply by tomorrow?”

  “If at all possible, sir. I need to get back straightaway.”

  “All right, then, I’ll have it ready.” Anxious now for the man to leave, Michael followed him to the door.

  Tierney was at him again as soon as he turned around. “Is it really from your friend Morgan, Da? Why do you suppose he had it carried by messenger?”

  “It’s from Morgan right enough,” Michael said, ripping open the envelope.

  Tierney hovered at his shoulder. “What does he say? Is something wrong?”

  “Hush, now, and let me read it so we’ll know.”

  As soon as he began reading, Michael realized the letter had not been written in answer to his own, mailed back in November. If Morgan had received it at all, he made no mention. Neither was it typical of the hastily scratched notes Morgan usually wrote; it was several pages long and written in a careful hand.

  “Aren’t you going to read it aloud, Da?”

  Hearing the impatience in Tierney’s voice, Michael shook his head distractedly. “It’s too long. You can read it a page at a time as I do.”

  The further he read, the more disturbed he became. The news accounts he’d been following for weeks leaped to life through Morgan’s vivid descriptions and uncompromising accounts of Ireland’s tragedy. Michael felt as if Morgan were here, in this very room, telling him face-to-face of the devastation, the horrors that had fallen upon their country. All the ugliness he had heretofore only imagined became dreadfully real. And behind every line, he could sense Morgan’s pain and his rage at his utter helplessness.

  Handing the pages to Tierney as he finished each one, Michael’s heart began to pound. The more he read, the worse it got. Morgan reeled off news about his own family and others Michael knew and remembered. Nora…

  She had lost her husband—and her little girl! Dear heaven, her oldest son was failing, too? Michael realized he had moaned aloud for her pain when Tierney put a hand to his arm.

  The only hope for her at all is to leave Killala…to leave Ireland. While I know I’ll have the time of it, convincing her to go, somehow I must find a way. Although Nora has not faced it yet, I doubt that Tahg, her oldest lad, will last until spring, and her father-in-law—do you remember Old Dan Kavanagh?—will most certainly be gone before then. If she does not leave, and soon, Michael, she will perish with all the others.

  If have told her nothing of this yet, but with the help of some of my lads, I’m sure I can raise passage money for her and those of her family left alive, as well as for Thomas and his young ones, to come across. But I’ll be needing some help, and that’s where you come in, old friend, though what I’m about to ask is not an easy thing.

  Curious, Michael frowned and scanned ahead, reading beyond the words of apology until he reached the next page.

  And so, keeping in mind that you’ve been without your Eileen some years now, and remembering there was a time when you had a true fondness for Nora, I’m anxiously wondering if you could find it in your heart, Michael—you and Tierney—to take Nora and what remains of her family by then, into your home.

  Stunned, Michael’s eyes fastened on the last line for a long moment before Tierney’s voice broke through his incredulity. Looking at his son, Michael hesitated, then handed him the page he had just read. His pulse skipped, then lunged and raced ahead as he went on with Morgan’s letter.

  The only chance I stand of making her listen to reason is to give her the security of knowing someone will be there, waiting for her, when she arrives. In truth, what I am asking, Michael, is that you consider marrying our Nora...

  Marry her? Marry Nora?

  Michael’s eyes went back over the words again, the blood roaring to his head.

  I know there was a time when you had a great fondness for her, and with that in mind, I’m hoping an arrangement such as I suggest might not be entirely to your disliking.

  By now I’m sure you’re newly astounded at my always considerable nerve, but I must stretch your patience even further. Knowing Nora’s infernal pride and insistence on propriety, I believe the only way she would ever entertain such an extreme idea would be if you were to write her yourself—just as if all this were your doing, rather than mine. Perhaps—and only perhaps—if she thought the need were more yours than her own, she might be willing to start a new life in America.

  The room swayed around Michael. His mouth went dry, and his heart pumped wildly. But there was more.

  You have a right to ask, and are wondering, I’m sure, why I do not wed Nora and bring her over myself. I cannot deny that I love the lass and have for most of my life long. But we both know it would be worse than folly for a woman like Nora to wed a man like me—even if she would have me, which I doubt. I can offer her nothing but a heart forever chained to a dying country. I cannot leave; besides, Nora deserves far more than the fool I am. And so I’m praying you will find it in your heart to make room for her and her youngest, Daniel John—and, should Tahg survive, him as well. I’m sure the old man would never leave, even if he should recover enough to travel.

  I hope to secure passage for both families and perhaps raise some extra funds as well. I know the increased financial burden in this is no small matter.

  In closing, I would ask that you send me a private answer by the lad who delivered this letter to you, and if, please God, your answer is yes, then send Nora a letter by him as well. I will see to it she never knows but what the idea was entirely your own.

  If you must forgive me for anything, my friend, then forgive me for remembering your utter selflessness and your eager willingness to help others. I thank you, and as always, I remain...your loyal friend, Morgan Fitzgerald.

  Michael stared at the last lines of the letter for a long time. He felt oddly detached from his surroundings—lightheaded, isolated, weak. The only reality seemed to be the letter in his hand and the sound of his heart pounding violently in his ears.

  When Tierney reached for the last page of the letter, prying it carefully from his father’s fingers, Michael was only vaguely aware of releasing it. Finally he blinked and turned to look at his son.

  The boy was gaping at him with a dazed look of disbelief that Michael was sure mirrored his own dumbfounded expression.

  “What in the world are you going to do, Da?”

  Numb, Michael stared at the boy. Then a thought struck him, jerking him back to reality.

  “The question is, what are we going to do?”

  Tierney stood watching him, the letter clutched in his hand. “What do you mean?”

  Michael willed himself to think. “This affects you every bit as much as me, lad. We’re talking about taking in an entire family—I can’t make a decision like that alone.” He stopped, swallowing down the panic swelling up in him. “Dear God, how can I make a decision like this at all?”

  Silence stretched between them until Tierney finally broke it. “I still remember Mother. Does that surprise you?”

>   The boy’s soft words caught Michael completely off guard. “Of course, you do, son. Tierney, no one is suggesting that Nora could ever take your mother’s place, nor would she—”

  Tierney shook his head. “I didn’t mean that, Da.”

  Michael waited. “What, then?”

  The boy looked away, embarrassed. “It’s just that…sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be nice, having someone—a woman—” He looked up, his face tight and pinched. “It might make it seem more like a home.” His shoulders relaxed a little, and he released a long breath.

  Michael’s face must have mirrored the dismay he felt at the boy’s words, for Tierney quickly tried to retract them. “I don’t mean we don’t already have a home, Da, nothing like that—I—”

  With a small wave of his hand, Michael nodded. “I know. I know exactly what you mean, and it’s all right. I’ve had the same thoughts myself, lad.”

  “You have? Honestly, Da?”

  Again Michael nodded. Going to the stove, he set the kettle on for tea. Then he turned back to Tierney, who stood watching him, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “Da? What did Morgan mean—about your once having a—a fondness for Nora?”

  Michael moistened his lips. He had not noticed before now the spurt of growth the boy seemed to have taken—he was nearly as tall as Michael himself—or the faint dusting of fuzz on his upper lip and cheeks, the newly angled lines and planes of his face. His son would soon be a man.

  And so he would talk with him as a man. “Sit down, son. We’ll have some breakfast, and I’ll tell you about Nora…and how she was special to both Morgan and me. And then—then we must be deciding what to do.”

  Only then did Michael manage to admit to himself that he did not necessarily find Morgan’s astounding request all that unthinkable.

  Dublin

  Two young men, both in knit caps and dock workers’ jackets waited in the darkness between the side of a warehouse and a pub on the wharf. It was late, past midnight, and the only light was a thin ribbon from the moon that barely managed to squeeze between the buildings.

  The taller of the two was a year older than his companion and had dark hair and a hard mouth; he stood so still he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Hair the color of corn silk straggled below the cap of the smaller man, who was pulling nervously at his gloved fingers.

  Neither had ever met Morgan Fitzgerald before tonight, but he was said to be a great steeple of a bearded man with dark red hair. They heard the sound of boots scraping the dock, and in another moment a dark, towering shadow loomed before them in the opening between the buildings.

  “I nanabhruid fen ama ge—”the tall, cloaked stranger intoned by way of identifying himself. My harp will sound a joyful chord.

  “Gach saorbhile samh—”Both men completed the greeting in unison. For the Gaels will be free!

  Fitzgerald slipped into the space where they stood. “Any word yet?”

  The fair-haired youth gaped at him openly, trying to get a better look in the dark, while the taller of the two shook his head. “None. But we’ve got your tickets. And some money.”

  The giant’s copper hair could barely be seen in the shadows. His voice was oddly gentle for such a large man. “That’s grand, lads. And what about the ship?”

  The dark-haired man opened his coat and withdrew a small packet, handing it to him. “It’s yours, sir. But we’ll need a date.”

  The big man in the cape took the packet, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. “You’re efficient as well as generous. I do thank you. But as to a date, I’m waiting for a response to my letter. Your lad was to wait on it and return it himself?”

  “Aye, sir. Those were his orders, and he’s dependable.”

  Fitzgerald nodded. “Well, then, we’ll simply go ahead with the plan. I’ll have to trust my friend in New York to come through for me as I believe he will.” He paused, running one hand down his beard. “Whether he does or he doesn’t, I must get them onto that ship. Let’s plan for the last weekend of March.”

  “Time enough,” answered the dark-haired man without delay. “The ship is ready, as is the crew. The other passengers will be boarded before she sails into Killala Bay. One good thing, the weather should improve some by then.” He paused, adding, “It’s a small ship, sir, but American-built. Safer than any of those British coffins.”

  “I appreciate it, lads. It’s my family—and others dear to me—who will be sailing on it.”

  The younger man spoke for the first time. “It’s treacherous, sailing out of such a small harbor, sir.”

  He felt the big man’s eyes on him and worried that he’d spoken out of turn.

  But the voice in the darkness was kind when it came. “I know. But it’s the only way, you see. There will be some going who are ill, if they last long enough to go at all. They will do well to make it to the bay, much less survive the trek to a distant port.”

  The youth was quick to reassure him. “Sure, and they’ll be fine sailing out of Killala, sir.”

  Fitzgerald’s heavy sigh filled the darkness. “If I can convince them to sail at all.” After a brief lull, he said, “Well, lads, you can reach me through Duffy or Smith O’Brien for another day or so. Then I’ll be starting for Killala—I dare not stay away any longer. You’ll see that any message from New York reaches me there right away?”

  “You’ll be contacted just as soon as our man returns, sir. You can count on that,” the dark-haired one assured him.

  “Sir—”

  The big man had turned to go, but stopped at the youth’s voice, waiting.

  “You’ve heard about O’Connell? They’re saying he’s a broken man.” Fitzgerald nodded and again sighed. “He has exhausted himself entirely.”

  “For Ireland,” the youth said stoutly.

  “Aye” came Fitzgerald’s soft answer. “For Ireland.”

  The two men watched him disappear into the mist-veiled night. “He’s not at all as I had pictured him,” said the younger.

  “How is that?”

  “I expected him to be a somewhat—harder man. A bit loud and fiery, perhaps even gruff.”

  His dark-haired companion murmured agreement.

  “Still, he calls himself a simple schoolmaster and a poet,” said the youth.

  “That he does,” replied the older man. “But in County Mayo, they call him the Red Wolf.”

  11

  The Sorrowful Spring

  For the vision of hope is decayed,

  Though the shadows still linger behind.

  THOMAS DERMODY(1775-1802)

  March came to Killala with no song of spring, no hint of hope.

  Ordinarily it was a month greeted with relief and lighter hearts. March meant the approaching end of winter and the drawing near of spring, the promise of warm breezes and planting time, the welcome escape from long months of indoor confinement and idleness. Soon the days would turn gentle, the evenings soft with the scent of sea and heather.

  That had been March before the Hunger. Now the month arrived with the sobs of starving children and the endless clacking of death carts in the streets. Heralded by the lonely keening of those who mourned their dead and the shuffling footsteps of homeless peasants on the road, the winds of March moaned across the land with no respite from the winter’s cruelty.

  In every county, in every province, evictions were commonplace, starvation was rampant, and disease raged through village after village with the fury of a host of demons. By March the reality of an epidemic was undeniable. Fever hospitals dotted the countryside, but they were so few and so poorly equipped as to be almost negligible; the workhouses, too, were impossibly overcrowded and had long since closed their doors. The afflicted had little choice other than to suffer at home—if indeed they still had a roof over their heads—or to surrender their lives in a ditch by the road.

  The Kavanagh household was no exception. They had depleted their paltry supply of food days ago, and with no cow or
other stock to slaughter, they were facing imminent starvation. Nora had even found herself praying for Morgan Fitzgerald’s return, in the far-reaching hope that he might bring another precious store of provisions with him.

  Daniel John had gone outside just before midday to look for food—a futile effort, Nora knew only too well, and she had tried to dissuade him. The poor lad was trying so desperately these days to be a man, to be strong for them all, but there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

  Her spirit had always been set against the wind, opposed to giving in to hardship or despair. But she had very nearly reached the point where she no longer had the strength or the desire to drag herself through another hopeless day. Were it not for her sons and the old man needing her so desperately, she could easily lie down and welcome death.

  But they did need her, and as long as they did she could not give up. She sat watching them now, her ailing son and father-in-law. Daniel John had helped her move his grandfather’s bed into the alcove next to Tahg’s so she could more easily attend to the two of them at once. They were both sleeping, Tahg fitfully, his forehead furrowed with pain as he shivered beneath the threadbare blanket. Old Dan lay somewhere in the shadowed place where he’d been for days, waiting for the angels to come for him. Except for the heaving of his sunken chest, he moved not at all.

  Nora leaned her head back, closing her eyes against the painful sight of their misery. Not for the first time, she was stirred by anger and resentment at the thought of all that had been taken from the old man and his descendants. This was his land, after all, his and that of his ancestors before him. Ever since the youthful Eoin Caomhanach—the first John Kavanagh—had fled to the west after Cromwell’s invasion, this land had been worked and farmed by the Kavanagh family. Driven across the country like cattle fleeing from a storm, those early refugees from Cromwell’s cruelty had learned to make the best of the land as they found it.